Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
“Oh.”
And now we arrive.
The town is nothing that I imagined. “Outpost” suggests a couple of grungy buildings huddled together while men and women do dirty deeds in not-so-secret ways. This is very nearly a city. There are too many houses, shops, and trading posts to count, and the road breaks off into different routes that run into the thicket of commerce and residences. There’s no charm to any of it. Unlike my village, where the lanes are cobblestone, and lanterns hang by rounded doors, and the stuccoed facades come in colors, everything here is weathered wood and utilitarian. There’s also a battened-down look to it all, no open windows or doors, anywhere.
Something tells me it’s not because of the heat or the approaching weather.
Faded signs announce that there’s a grain merchant, a mercantile and clothier, and finally, something that piques my interest: Herbist. And interspersed among these going concerns are unmarked porches that I assume are attached to homes—
Another roll of thunder reaches my ears, and I glance over my shoulder again. A flicker of orange lightning teases the undersides of the dark clouds that continue to close in fast, and dread makes me shiver. I’ve never seen it that color before.
“Everything here is made to hunker down,” Merc remarks. “And going by the condition of the wood siding, I’m thinking it’s bad weather—in addition to bad manners.”
“Do you know where we’re going to stay?”
“No, but something will turn—”
Up ahead, a pair of men crash out of a set of double doors, and Merc has to pull up our steed. The two drunkards are in mid-slug, their sloppy fists and slippery boots the kind of thing I’m well used to from the pub, except this is the late afternoon, not midnight.
There are two other sets of doors under the short overhang, and those exits break open, shaggy-haired people dressed in well-worn clothing spilling out into the lane. The audience is little different from the combatants, and up on the second floor, seams open all along the facade, faces peering out of shuttered windows. There are a lot of beards, and the women seem as tough as the men.
“Ye bastard! She’s mine—”
A leveled, sailing fist makes contact by luck, rather than skill, and the accusation is cut off by a crack that makes me think teeth have been compromised. Assuming there were any in that mouth to begin with.
The knockout flop is like a bag of oats tossed off a cart, and the concussed lands with the same finality—though he’s face down in the dirt, he doesn’t lift his head for air. The victor lifts both arms over his head and starts to dance around, at least until he trips over the boot of his foe, loses his own balance, and lands across the knocked-out guy.
Same flop sound. And he also doesn’t get up.
At this point, there’s a long pause, the audience falling silent. Then the arguing starts, all kind of fingers pointing to the men who’ve passed out in the street. The volume of the voices rises until there’s a sharp whistle from a fat, mustached man who looks annoyed.
“He fell first, that’s what it be!” he says.
Fates, it’s like Mr. Lewis, just with hair.
The announcement brings all kinds of grumbling, but coins start changing hands as people turn away and reenter the building. Upstairs, the curious faces retract, and the second-story shutters close up, tight as ticks.
That’s when I notice the faded sign mounted just above the overhang: WIDOW’S PEAK INN & TAVERN.
“We stay here,” Merc announces.
Thirty-Nine
A Reminder of Things Unchanged.
The check-in process is smooth. We’re assigned a room, our horse is likewise taken into boarding, and going by the way everybody steps carefully around Merc, it’s clear that trouble will not be immediately looking for us. Further, he tells everyone I’m his wife, and he pays with a silver coin, not a copper one.
“It’s the best room in the place.” The brusque woman leading us up the creaky stairs speaks between grunts. “Just cleaned, too. Meant to be.”
I can’t tell what age she is. Her hair is gray, and she’s a bit stooped, but she’s solid and no-nonsense. In this way, she’s like all the buildings of the Outpost, battened down and hearty. As with a lot of the women in the pub, her skirt is made of heavy, felt material in a deep red that flares out in a straight circle to the floor. I was wondering how she sat down—and how she was going to make it up the stairs—but the front of it bends as if hinged. On her top, she has a short vest of the same fabric and a loose gray blouse that billows out around her arms.
I’m not sure what’s so significant about the felt. Some of the men have pants and outer coatings also made of it, though their clothes are brown, and the uniformity of the dress helps me pick out who’s part of the community and who’s passing through. But it can’t be comfortable—